Christmas At Pemberley

‘Dylan? I’m not naming my kid Dylan! That’s a naff name,’ Dominic objected. ‘I’m not wild about Phoebe, either. I’ve got an Aunt Phoebe, and she’s a right bitch.’

‘And we’ll need to get the baby registered for Wetherby as soon as it’s born,’ Gemma went on, oblivious. ‘The waiting list is miles long.’

‘What? Is the waiting list so long we’ve got to register the baby for school before it’s even in bloody utero?’ Dominic demanded. ‘That’s ridiculous.’

‘That’s what we have to do if our baby’s to have a proper education.’

‘Poor little mite. Not even conceived yet, and the wheels are already in motion.’

‘Are you saying I’m wrong to want our baby to have a proper education?’

‘No. I’m just saying that you barely got through the local comprehensive, Gems, and I ‒’ he paused ‘‒ well, I’m not exactly a Man Booker prize candidate, am I?’

‘Maybe not,’ she agreed, ‘but you’re a famous rock singer, with lots of fans and hit records to your credit.’

‘And lots of dosh, too,’ he added with a satisfied smirk. ‘Don’t forget that.’

‘But we don’t know if little Rafaella or Dylan or Phoebe will have your artistic talents, do we? So we need to make sure they receive an excellent education.’

‘I had an excellent education,’ Dom pointed out, ‘and it didn’t do me much good.’

‘That’s because you didn’t apply yourself. And you wanted more out of life than being the next Locksley heir.’

‘True,’ he agreed, and sat up. ‘Well – at least the old man’ll be happy to know he’ll soon have a little heir-in-waiting in the old bun-warmer. He’s always banging on at me and Liam, wanting to know when we plan to produce a grandchild.’

Gemma leant forward and brushed her lips against his. ‘We can get started on making a baby tonight, if you like,’ she murmured, and smiled seductively.

‘How about sooner, babes, like...on the plane?’

Gemma giggled. ‘And tell our little girl or boy that they were conceived in an airplane loo? No!’

‘Why not? We can christen the kid...Lufthansa. Or Ryanair. Or if it’s a girl, EasyJet.’

Gemma slapped his hand away from her thigh. ‘I want our baby to be conceived in romantic surroundings, Dom, in a canopy bed piled with blankets, with a roaring fire in the fireplace, and snow coming down outside... not inside an airline loo, balanced atop a stainless-steel sink with a faucet up my arse.’

‘Every detail can’t always be perfect, you know,’ he grumbled. ‘What’ll you do ‒ post a picture to FacePage before we do the deed? I can see it now: ‘Look, everyone ‒ here’s the bed where Dom and I are about to conceive little Lufthansa’? Or maybe you can add a new relationship status – ‘currently being roundly shagged’?’

‘Oh, do shut up,’ Gemma said crossly as she picked up her mobile and thumbed through her text messages. ‘I’m not that bad.’

‘No. You’re worse. You’re obsessed with social media. The only way I can get your attention lately is to send you a bloody text message.’

But Gemma didn’t hear him. She was too busy posting a status update to FacePage to notice.

Thank God they haven’t cancelled the flight, the woman thought as she shoved her laptop into the already crowded overhead bin and squeezed into the last remaining seat in economy class. Otherwise I wouldn’t get to Scotland until after Christmas.

She glanced out the window. Snow fell steadily and had just begun to cover the Tarmac. Another hour of this and all flights out of Heathrow would be cancelled.

A family came down the aisle and sat across from her. The mother settled into a seat with her little girl beside her, and her husband sat just in front with their son. The girl had ginger hair and was perhaps nine or ten, complaining about the injustice of being denied a promised sweet. Her brother ignored her and played a game on his father’s mobile phone.

The woman reached for her iPod and earphones. Thank God for noise-blocking technology. She had far too much work to be doing to sit here and listen to children complaining and video games beeping and parents shushing their little darlings for two-plus hours.

Still, as she busied herself drafting a few notes on her mobile before the flight attendant asked them to shut off all electronic devices, her glance strayed once again to the girl and her brother. They were cute kids, she thought. For a moment – just for a moment – she allowed herself to imagine having a little ginger-haired girl, or a tow-headed little boy, of her own...

She pressed her lips together and turned her thoughts back to the matter at hand. Work. She had plenty to be doing, she reminded herself firmly, and a deadline to meet. She forced her attention back to her mobile screen.

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! The little girl just behind her was kicking the back of her seat in time as she sang a (very loud) CBeebies song.

She let out a long, aggrieved sigh.

Bloody deadlines. Bloody economy. Bloody children.

Chapter 3

‘What d’you mean, you don’t have a hire car?’

Dominic Heath, his face inches away from the man’s standing behind the hire counter, spoke in a deceptively calm voice despite the dangerous glint in his eyes.

The hire agent’s smile was apologetic. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Heath, but we haven’t a car reserved for you.’

‘Well, get me another one.’

‘Regrettably, we have no other cars available at this time. They’ve all been hired out.’

‘That can’t be,’ Dominic ground out. ‘My agent, Max Morecombe, arranged for a car – along with a driver ‒ for my fiancée and me two weeks ago.’

With a nod and a nervous smile at the rock star and his glowering girlfriend, the agent tapped once again at the keys of his computer. ‘I’m very sorry, sir,’ he said a moment later, ‘but I see no reservation under ‘Dominic Heath.’ Did he perhaps arrange it under another name?’

‘Try Rupert Locksley.’

More tapping, more frowning, and another regretful shake of the hire agent’s head followed. ‘Nothing, I’m afraid.’

‘Try “Dr Feckle”. Or “Mr Clyde”.’

The agent looked at him oddly, but nodded and tapped. ‘Erm...no luck with either. Sorry.’

‘Right, then. Get me another car,’ Dominic demanded.

‘As I just explained, sir, there are no other cars—’

‘So what the fuck am I supposed to do in the meantime?’ the rock star raged. ‘Sleep in this poxy airport lounge all night? Get me a bloody CAR!’

Natalie, alerted by Dominic’s raised voice as she waited with Rhys to get their hire car, glanced over.

‘Oh, dear,’ she murmured, and touched Rhys’s sleeve. ‘Dom and Gemma seem to be having a problem.’

He followed her glance. ‘Yes,’ he agreed, his expression dour. ‘And I’ve no doubt Dominic is the problem. He always is.’

‘You’re probably right,’ Natalie agreed. ‘Just the same, I think I’ll go over and see if I can help.’

Rhys shrugged. ‘Suit yourself. Although I wouldn’t bother.’

Natalie left and made her way across the crowded floor to the car agency counter. Gemma, her attention focused on finding the perfect wedding gown on her mobile phone, didn’t look up as she approached.

‘Hullo, Dom,’ Nat said warily as she joined him at the counter, ‘what’s wrong?’

He looked up, a scowl on his face. It morphed into surprise as he caught sight of her. ‘Natalie! What are you doing here?’

‘Rhys and I are on our way to Loch Draemar to visit Tarquin and Wren. You remember Tark, don’t you?’

‘Yeah, of course I do. He’s that Scottish bloke with the castle and shedloads of money, isn’t he?’

She nodded. ‘He’s invited us to stay for the Christmas holidays. I’m really looking forward to it.’ She glanced over at Gemma, still texting and oblivious to anything around her, and back at Dominic. ‘Why were you shouting just now? What’s wrong?’

‘What’s wrong?’ he echoed. His face darkened. ‘I’ll tell you what’s wrong! This poxy hire car agency doesn’t have a car reserved for Gemma and me. And now there’s not so much as a clown car available for hire, thanks to Max’s screw-up and this bloody blizzard!’

Natalie cast an apologetic glance at the hire agent and drew Dominic aside. ‘We’ll just be a moment.’

Gemma, alerted by Dominic’s raised voice, looked up from her texting long enough to see her fiancé having a cosy tête-à-tête with Natalie, his ex-girlfriend.

Her eyes narrowed. ‘Natalie,’ she said as she put away her mobile and strode over, ‘what are you doing here? I didn’t expect to see you in Scotland.’

‘Obviously not,’ Nat said, and sniffed.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘How could you possibly know what I’m doing, when you haven’t spoken to me in months?’

Gemma had the grace to look uncomfortable. ‘I’ve been busy,’ she said defensively. ‘There’s lots going on.’

‘So much going on that you couldn’t even tell me you’re about to get married?’ Natalie hissed.

‘Shh! It’s a secret!’ Gemma hissed back.

They glared at each other.

‘All right, you two,’ Dominic interrupted, ‘do you mind having your hen fest or catfight or whatever the fuck it is some other time? I still have no idea ‒’ he scowled at the man behind the counter ‘ ‒ how we’re getting from here to Northton Grange with No. Bloody. Car.’

Gemma sighed. ‘You’re right, Dom.’ She met Natalie’s eyes. ‘Sorry, Nat, it’s been crazy, it really has. But that’s no excuse to ignore one of your best mates.’

‘It’s okay,’ Nat said. ‘The most important thing right now,’ she added briskly, ‘is to find you both a ride. I’ve an idea ‒ why don’t you come along with us? Rhys is just getting our hire car now. We can take you as far as Loch Draemar, at any rate.’

‘Ooh, would you?’ Gemma said, her expression hopeful. ‘You’d really save our bacon. I don’t fancy sleeping in the airport. Thanks, Nat.’

‘No problem. Wait here, I’ll just go and let Rhys know there’s been a change of plan.’

‘You want to do what?’ Rhys hissed after Natalie explained the situation. He cast Dominic, glowering at him from in front of the hire counter, a black look. ‘I don’t want to share our car with that bolshie little shit.’

‘It’s only until we get to Draemar,’ she pointed out reasonably, and added, ‘We can’t very well leave them stranded here at the airport, can we?’

‘Is that a rhetorical question?’ Rhys gritted.

‘Rhys!’

He sighed. ‘Bloody hell! All right, tell them to get their things and come along. I want to get on the A96 as soon as possible, or we’ll never make it to Tarquin’s castle by nightfall.’

The snow came swirling down in thick flakes as the unlikely foursome made their way across the car park to the waiting hire car.

Dominic loaded their luggage into the boot next to Nat and Rhys’s, then climbed into the back seat of the Ford Mondeo alongside Gemma and slammed the door, grumbling under his breath.

‘Have you something to say, Dominic?’ Rhys enquired as he eyed the rock singer balefully in the rear view mirror.

Dominic glared back. But, ‘Thanks for the ride, mate,’ was all he said.

With a grunt, Rhys started the engine, and began their journey down the A96 through the snowy Scottish countryside.

The woman clutched the steering wheel with white-tipped knuckles, her face set in a pale mask of concentration as she manoeuvred the hired Fiat along the ice-slick roads. She forced her attention on the Tarmac, barely visible through the windscreen now under the heavy curtain of snowflakes falling relentlessly down.

Without warning, the wheels lost traction, sliding on a patch of snow-covered ice. With a sharp intake of breath, she gripped the wheel tighter and slammed on the brakes, remembering as she did that you were meant to tap the brakes gently and turn into the skid, not against it; but it was already too late.

The car veered sideways. Panicked, she tried to regain control, but the Fiat slid off the road, down an embankment and into a snowdrift-covered ditch.

She let out a piercing scream.

The lorry was huge, and came hurtling straight at them in the rain. Headlights loomed, blinding their faces as each of the drivers twisted the wheel in a futile, too-late attempt to avoid a head-on collision.

The horrific shriek of metal shearing and glass shattering was the last sound she heard before the impact threw her from the car.

Her screams still echoed in her ears as she lifted trembling hands away from her face. The windscreen was covered now in white; the wipers had stopped working, frozen into immobility. Must get out, she thought disjointedly, her heart doing odd things in her chest. Can’t stay in the car. Carbon monoxide poisoning, blocked tailpipes...runaway lorries...

She struggled to open the door, shoving it back against a pile of snow until she was able to wedge herself out of the car on trembling legs. She groped for a pair of mittens in her coat pocket and pulled them on. Cautiously she edged round the front of the car to inspect the damage, clutching at the fender, when she heard the driver’s door swing shut behind her with a thud of finality.

And as it shut, she realized her keys were still in the ignition, and her purse and her laptop were still on the passenger seat...and the bloody Fiat was bloody locked.

Oh, fuck. What do to? She was alone in the middle of a blizzard somewhere in the Scottish Highlands, with a car she couldn’t get into and only a threadbare puffa jacket and a pair of mittens – already sodden ‒ to keep her warm.

She stood and clutched at her elbows as a wave of unadulterated panic washed over her. Her mobile phone, locked away in her handbag in the car, was useless, as was any hope of calling someone to come and rescue her.

Why, why, why hadn’t she listened to the nice man at the hire car counter in Inverness and waited the storm out in a nearby hotel?

Because you never listen, she told herself, you never bloody listen.

Grimly she pulled her jacket collar closer against her chin and trudged forward through the snow – because what else was she to do?

There was nothing for it but to walk, to follow the snow-covered sliver of Tarmac and keep moving.

She’d slogged through the snow for perhaps ten minutes when she glimpsed a house – no, it looked like a bloody castle – looming up ahead, half hidden by the snow and the trees. Her fingers were numb and she couldn’t feel her legs beneath her. Was she really seeing a castle, she wondered, or was she having some sort of...of snow hallucination?

You go to sleep, don’t you, she thought, just before you freeze to death?

The snow was intermingled now with a sharp, icy rain, and she stumbled forward for several more minutes, grown slow and stupid with the cold. She thought she saw a stone cottage a few yards ahead. Or was it, too, a figment of her snow-fevered imagination?

It was a gatehouse of some sort, she realized dazedly, and thank God there was a light on inside.

She didn’t realize she was crying until she felt the tears, frozen on her face. Something under the snow – a fallen tree trunk or a rock – made her stumble. With a cry she fell hands-first into a snowdrift as her ankle gave way and twisted beneath her. Now her trousers were as sodden and wet as her gloves and her ankle began to throb. She shivered and dragged herself back up, then staggered, wincing with pain, towards the door.

‘Help,’ she croaked as she pounded weakly on the door, ‘someone let me in, please...’

Chapter 4

‘I saw the sweetest family at Heathrow,’ Natalie ventured an hour later. The atmosphere in the Mondeo, she couldn’t help but notice, was decidedly tense.

Dominic said nothing and glowered out the window. Rhys, his jaw set, was silent as he focused on navigating the slippery, snow-covered road.

And Gemma was too busy texting and posting on her mobile phone to notice anything – or anyone – around her.

Desperate to lighten the mood, Nat added, ‘This family had a little girl and a little boy. The girl was put out because she wanted an ice lolly. In this weather! Can you imagine? Isn’t that too funny?’

Evidently no one else thought it was funny, or even particularly interesting, as no one bothered to respond. Natalie gave up and subsided with a sigh into silence.

‘I’ll say this much,’ Rhys observed grimly a moment later. ‘It’s bloody treacherous out here.’

Nat leant forward and touched his arm. ‘Will we make it safely to Loch Draemar, do you think?’ she asked in a low voice. Anxiety etched her face.

‘We should do,’ he allowed, his words cautious as he kept his eyes on the windscreen, ‘barring no unforeseen surprises, like an accident or an engine malfunction—’

He’d no sooner uttered the words when a stag leapt out of the surrounding forest and slid to a stop before them, legs wildly cartwheeling, blocking the road. With a startled curse, Rhys wrenched the wheel sideways to avoid hitting the animal.

Natalie gasped. Gemma shrieked. And Dominic snarled, ‘What the fuck are you doing up there, Gordon? You made me lose my place in the latest issue of Luxury Car Gear.’

Rhys shot him a murderous glare. ‘I’m driving, in the event you hadn’t noticed, in a bloody blizzard, whilst trying to avoid the very large elk that just leapt in front of us.’

‘Oh.’ Dominic peered ahead. ‘Well, try not to kill us all in the process, if you don’t fucking mind.’

‘It’s you I’d like to kill,’ Rhys growled, ‘you poxy, ungrateful little shit—’

‘Ooh, look!’ Natalie exclaimed, anxious to de-escalate the hostilities as she clutched at Rhys’s sleeve. ‘Our friend’s leaving.’

It was true. The elk, having decided that the car and its occupants were of less interest than the prospect of food, turned and, with a dip of his majestic, antlered head, leapt back into the nearby woods and disappeared.

‘Could we get on with it, please?’ Dominic demanded. ‘I’d like to get to the village before nightfall. Gem and I still need to find a hotel room, you know.’

‘Perhaps,’ Rhys said, his voice dangerously calm, ‘you’d like to drive?’

‘Not my hire car, is it?’ Dominic fired back. ‘I can’t drive it, as I’ve got no liability. Sorry, mate.’

Rhys pressed his lips together. It was only Natalie’s whispered reminder that Dominic so wasn’t worth spending the night in a Scottish gaol that kept him from shoving the gearshift right up the rock star’s skinny little arse.

And Gemma, who’d returned once again to her texting and posting and uploading, took no notice of any of them.

Helen’s feeble knocking finally alerted someone inside the cottage, and the door swung open. She was vaguely aware of a man who helped her stumble inside, and the moment he led her to a sofa in front of a deliciously warm fire and threw a quilt over her, she fell into a deep and exhausted sleep.

She dreamt of shattering glass and overturned lorries and headlights rushing straight at her, and she heard the sound of her own screams echoing in her head...

With a start she woke up. ‘Where am I?’ she muttered, disoriented. She didn’t recognize the stone fireplace, its maw blackened and its mantel hewn of wood, or the floor lamp with its tasselled shade. Her ankle throbbed dully.

A man knelt down, his voice gruff as he said, ‘Be glad you’re not out there. Worst blizzard in five years.’

‘Who ‒ who are you?’ she asked.

She stared at him, mesmerized. He was a giant...a scowling, dark-ginger-haired giant with a dark-ginger beard who might have stepped from the pages of a fairy tale, one about woodsmen and children who foolishly nibbled on houses made of candy...

‘The groundskeeper.’ He offered no further information. ‘And who are you?’

‘Helen,’ she said after a moment. ‘My car hit an icy patch and slid off the road at the bottom of the drive.’

‘It’s nae a night to be driving.’

‘No, it isn’t,’ she responded, suddenly defensive, ‘but I had no choice.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I’m working. I have responsibilities. Deadlines. Things I can’t put off until the weather improves.’ She paused and added, ‘What’s your name?’

‘Colm.’

She pushed herself up, wincing as pain shot through her foot with the movement. ‘Have you an aspirin? I think I may have turned my ankle.’

He said nothing, but straightened with a grunt and disappeared into the kitchen. Judging from the sound of banging pots and water running and cabinets opening and closing, he must be making tea. She hoped he was making tea. She’d kill for a cup of strong, hot Earl Grey right now.

Five minutes later she heard the kettle whistle, and the clatter of china and silverware. He returned in a moment with a tray in hand, laden with mugs, spoons, and pots of demerara sugar and cream...and a couple of aspirin.

There was even, she was surprised to note, a plate set out with a lemon wedge.

He put the tray down on the coffee table and glanced up. ‘How d’you take yer tea?’

‘Lemon, lots of sugar. No cream,’ she answered, and waited as he ladled in three heaped spoons of sugar, plonked in the lemon wedge, and stirred the lot with a spoon.

He thrust the mug at her.

‘Thank you.’ Gingerly she took it, and had a sip. She closed her eyes in ecstasy. It was the most perfect cup of tea she’d ever tasted, and she told him so.

In answer, he grunted.

Not exactly a candidate for a London talk show, then, she thought uncharitably. ‘Where is this place?’ she asked, curious.

‘Draemar. Loch Draemar, to be exact.’

She’d never heard of it. ‘Ah. And who owns the castle on the hill?’

His eyes came to rest on hers. ‘Who wants to know?’

‘What is this, twenty questions?’ Irritation coloured her voice. ‘I’ve told you, my name is Helen. Why won’t you answer my question?’

He narrowed his eyes at her. ‘Why d’ye need to know?’

My God, but he’s the most suspicious man I’ve ever met, Helen thought. She reined in her annoyance and said calmly, ‘I’m on my way to Northton Grange. Do you know it?’

‘I do. There’s naught there but a church and a cemetery. And a rock star’s estate.’ He said this last with contempt.

‘So you do know it.’

‘I know of it. Not the same thing at all,’ he retorted, and turned away.

‘Wait,’ Helen protested. ‘Where are you going?’

He didn’t respond, just disappeared from the room. He came back a moment later with her handbag and laptop and dumped them both unceremoniously on the table next to the tea things.

‘My purse,’ Helen exclaimed, and reached out to snatch it up and scrabble through it in search of her mobile. It wasn’t there. ‘Shit,’ she muttered, ‘my phone must’ve slid off the seat onto the floor.’ She glanced up. ‘Did you happen to see it?’

‘If it’s not there,’ he retorted, ‘I didn’t see it. I brought what I found.’

She met his impenetrable eyes. ‘Right. So you did. Well, thank you, for that—’ she broke off, puzzled. ‘But...how did you get in? The car was locked.’

He raised his brow. ‘Aye, it was locked,’ he agreed, and eyed her levelly. ‘But the rear hatch wasn’t.’

And although he didn’t say it, Helen knew – just knew – that he was thinking to himself what a stupid, rattle-brained Londoner she was, wandering about in a life-threatening blizzard, when the rear bloody hatch of her car was unlocked the entire bloody time.

‘You’ll want to call in the morning to get someone to tow your car out,’ he said, his words gruff. ‘I can’t do it, the tractor won’t make it down the ravine. And there’s nae a phone here.’

She said nothing, but she wasn’t surprised he hadn’t a telephone. The cottage, with its huge stone fireplace, deep-silled windows, and ancient furnishings, was like something out of Grimm’s Fairy Tales. Or The Hobbit.